


Déjà-Vu

by Aragarna



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:06:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5170025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aragarna/pseuds/Aragarna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing the good old days of their partnership, Peter convinces Neal to help him on a case. But things don't go as smoothly as expected...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://icecreammilktea.livejournal.com/profile)[icecreammilktea](http://icecreammilktea.livejournal.com/)'s [awesome prompt](http://collarcorner.livejournal.com/34806.html?thread=1196534#t1196534) (spoilery, read at your own risk) over at Collar Corner

 

Peter grabbed the leash from the hook next to the front door and turned to his dog. Satchmo eagerly rose from his basket and wagged his tail as he trotted toward the door, looking at Peter expectantly.

Neal put on his coat and turned to Elizabeth. “Thank you so much for yet another amazing lunch, Elizabeth.”

“It’s always a pleasure, Neal,” Elizabeth said, squeezing his shoulder lightly.

Peter opened the door, and Neal followed him and Satchmo down the steps.  They stopped on the sidewalk, exchanging a look and smiled at each other.

Peter was reluctant to let go of Neal. Not just yet.

“It was… nice,” he said.

Neal nodded. “It was.”

“Maybe we could…”

But Peter was interrupted by Satchmo suddenly pulling on the leash, throwing him off balance. Peter barely managed to catch his fall, making an acrobatic jump backward.

Neal burst out laughing. “Nice catch. You never told me about your stunt skills.”

“What can I say,” Peter retorted with a smirk. “Years of dog-walking practice.”

“I can see that.”

Peter pointed at Satchmo, who was still pulling on the leash. “I gotta go. See you, Neal.”

“See you, Peter,” Neal replied, still chuckling. He walked away and Peter took the opposite direction, to Satchmo’s relief and delight.

They walked down the block, following their familiar route. Neal’s crystal laugh was still ringing in Peter’s ears, way after he was out of reach. A laugh that brought back many memories for Peter. Strangely, his heart tightened in his chest as images of their old partnership popped in his head. He felt invaded by a wave of melancholy.

The first months after Neal’s death, the void that his disappearance had created had been excruciating. Even after a year, Peter was still sincerely missing him. But he was getting there. He was missing the years of partnership with Neal, but it wasn’t as painful anymore. Obviously, his son had been _very_ good at creating an all new kind of chaos in his father’s life, monopolizing his attention and time. Between his family and his work, Peter’s life was as complete as ever, and his years of partnership with Neal were becoming simple and precious memories. _The good old days_.

So, now that Neal was back, very much alive and well, Peter had no reason to miss him anymore. And yet, Peter couldn’t shake that strange feeling. He _was_ missing Neal, or more exactly, the idea of Neal. And it was somehow even more evident now that the young man was back, because as much as he was back, he wasn’t _really_ back, not like before. And that just made it all the more obvious that the good old days were over.

Lost in his thoughts, Peter hadn’t even realized they were back in front of the house. Shaking off his melancholy, he quickly climbed the stairs and, once inside, released Satchmo from the leash.

Elizabeth was in the kitchen, finishing the dishes. Peter slid behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He kissed her at the small of her neck, and let out a sigh.

“Something wrong?” Elizabeth asked.

“What? No,” Peter protested. “I’m fine.”

Elizabeth grabbed a towel to wipe her hands, and turned to face Peter. She looked closely at him.

“Right,” she said, giving him a meaningful look.

Peter perched on a chair at the kitchen island and Elizabeth sat next to him. “It’s just that… I miss Neal.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Neal? Neal Caffrey? He visits almost every Sunday. And when he’s doesn’t, you’re meeting him for lunch. How can you miss him?”

Peter shook his head. “I know, but it’s not the same. It’s nice, but I miss what we had. Working cases, being a team. I keep having these flashes. One time, he’d make that bright ‘I won’t admit it’ smile. Another time, it’d be the way he finishes my sentence, or even how he’d know exactly what to say to annoy me. Today, it was the way he laughed…”

Elizabeth took Peter’s hand and made him look at her. “And what prevents you for working cases again?”

“He doesn’t want to work for the FBI anymore, and he has no obligations to.”

“Did he say so?”

Peter shook his head. “No, but you can see how he’s reluctant to ask about work, about the FBI.”

Elizabeth took his hand. “And you did a pretty good job at avoiding the subject, too.”

Peter looked down. “It’s just… Given the lenghts he went to escape the FBI, it seemed pretty clear to me, he didn’t want to hear about it anymore.”

“The FBI, maybe. But you?”

Peter looked at El intensely, pondering this for a moment. “You think he would?”

Elizabeth stepped down from the chair and gave Peter a kiss on the cheek. “Can’t hurt to ask. I’m sure you can find just the words.”

“And the right case,” Peter completed.

“And the right case,” Elizabeth confirmed, “One he couldn’t resist.”

“And I know just the one,” Peter said cheerfully. He kissed El. “Have I ever told you how smart you are?”

“Maybe once or twice,” she said with a wink.

\--------------------------------------------------

Peter walked to his office, put his coffee mug down on his desk and grabbed a bunch of files from the stack of ongoing investigations. He perused through them, discarding all the insurance frauds and unimaginative thefts. All very boring. Where did all the smart criminals go?

Finally, he found the thick file. The MoMA case! A missing painting – Picasso’s _Young Ladies of Avignon_ , no less – from one of the most prestigious museums of the city. Neal would never be able to resist that one, if only to prove he was smart enough to figure it out.

Smiling, Peter reached for his phone in his pocket, and dialed Neal’s number.

Neal picked up almost immediately. “Hey, Peter,” he greeted him cheerfully.

“Hey, Neal,” Peter said. “What would you say about catching lunch?”

“Sure.”

“Today?”

“Today?” Neal repeated, visibly surprised.

“Yes, I, um… I need your advice on something.”

There was a short silence before Neal answered. “Our diner? Noon?”

Peter liked the sound of ‘ _our_ diner’. “Perfect, see you then.”

 

 

To be continued...  



	2. Chapter Two

Neal stepped out of the subway and strolled to the little diner a block away from the FBI building. Three months after his return, it still felt strange to Neal, vaguely surreal, to be walking again in the city that he had once made his home and was afraid he’d lost forever.  Ever since he’d come back to New York, he and Peter had made the habit of having lunch there every once in a while. It wasn’t easy for Neal, walking the once familiar neighborhood again, but those lunches with his friend, here or at his home, were a sweet remembrance of the things they once had, and Neal simply couldn’t convince himself to let it go.  
  
Neal pushed open the door of the diner and caught sight of Peter. His friend looked up and his face immediately lit up.  
  
“Hey, Peter,” Neal greeted him, as he sat down opposite to Peter at their usual table.  
  
Peter put down the sandwich he was already eating and quickly wiped his hands.  
  
“Hi, Neal.”  
  
“How is the family, since… yesterday?”  
  
An expression of infinite tenderness appeared on Peter’s face at the evocation of his family. “Good, it’s all good. Though I am a little worried about Neal.”  
  
Neal frowned. “How so?”  
  
“Now that he’s starting to walk, he keeps escaping any chance he gets.”  
  
Neal chuckled. “No comment.”  
  
“So,” Peter went on. “I was thinking about putting a little anklet on him. What do you think?”  
  
Neal glared down at Peter.  
  
Peter laughed. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”  
  
Neal rolled his eyes and decided it was time to get back to the subject of this lunch. “What did you need my advice on?” he asked, picking up the menu.  
  
“How would you steal a Picasso from the MoMA?”  
  
Neal looked up from the menu, dumbfounded. He sure wasn’t expecting this. He quickly recovered from his initial surprise and narrowed his eyes, sending Peter an amused look.  
  
“Are you considering a change of career, Peter?” he asked, as the waitress took his order.  
  
Peter grinned and shook his head. “It’s about a case,” he said.  
  
Neal’s eyes widened. “A Picasso was stolen, at the MoMA? For real?”  
  
Peter nodded. “Yep.”  
  
“That’s bold,” he said, not hiding the hint of admiration in his tone. “Which one?”  
  
“The Young Ladies of Avignon.”  
  
“Seriously? How come no one is talking about it?”  
  
“We’ve kept all this from the press,” Peter said. “The museum would rather avoid the publicity.  So far so good. Though it would help if we could recover it quickly.”  
  
Neal nodded. “How did they do it?”  
  
“Some kid touched it during the day,” Peter explained after she left, “so they had to take it to the renovation room for inspection.”  
  
That was smart, Neal thought appreciatively. “You think the kid could lead you to the thief?”  
  
Peter shook his head. “Nah. He admitted someone gave him twenty dollars to lean on the painting, like so many tourists who want their pictures taken with it. Why people would want their pictures with a painting of weirdly drawn naked ladies is beyond me…”  
  
Neal shot him a shocked look. “Weirdly drawn?! Cubism?”  
  
“And still very much naked ladies,” Peter said, glaring at Neal.  
  
“Did you get a description from the kid?” Better get back to the subject matter than starting a pointless discussion on cubism with Peter…  
  
“Male, Caucasian, dark hair, wearing a goatee and thick glasses,” Peter quoted the report.  
  
Neal shook his head. “A disguise,” he said with disdain.  
  
The waitress brought Neal his salad and he started picking up at the Italian ham.  
“And nothing on camera,” Peter said. “The guy was careful.”  
  
Neal paused, thinking this over. Suddenly he looked up at Peter and frowned. “Oh, I see what you’re doing here.”  
  
Peter tried his best to plaster on a look of pure innocence. “What am I doing?”  
  
“A daring theft, likely a smart criminal – though not that smart if he uses disguises…You’re trying to lure me into working with you again.”  
  
“I’m not,” Peter protested. “We’re simply stuck on this case and I could really use your expertise.  Just this one case, I promise.”  
  
Neal wasn’t entirely convinced it was that simple.  
  
“Don’t you have a new CI by now?” he asked.  
  
Peter turned serious and paled slightly. “We don’t,” he said flatly.  
  
“Not easy to step in my shoes, huh?” Neal said with a cocky smile.  
  
Peter sighed and looked away. “You were dead, Neal. Our brilliant handler-CI program ended with the death of our CI, under our supervision.”  
  
Neal’s heart missed a beat. He bit his tongue. What an idiot. It should have occurred to him. “I didn’t…” he started.  
  
Peter interrupted him. “Don’t.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Neal breathed.  
  
Peter brushed it off. “It’s okay. You’re not dead, which I’m rather glad for, because it wasn’t my fault after all, and because you can buy me lunch.”  
  
Neal gave him a tentative smile.  
  
“But,” Peter went on, “I can’t tell anyone about it, so we can’t resume the program. And since we don’t have any brilliant CI’s now, you can’t refuse me your unofficial help.”  
  
Neal’s smile broadened. “Manipulating my guilt, Peter, that’s…”  
  
“Smart?” Peter grinned.  
  
“I was going for ‘mean’, but that too.”  
  
“Come on, just this one. I’m asking as a friend, not as the FBI,” Peter encouraged.  
  
A soft smile brushed Neal’s lips. “Not that it’s easy to separate you from the FBI. But okay. Just this one.”  
  
Peter nodded. “Just this one.”  
  
Peter excitedly took the blueprint of the renovation room out of the inner pocket of his jacket. He pushed away the plates and glasses to clear the center of the table and unfolded the print.  
  
Neal shook his head and chuckled. “And you have it all ready.”  
  
Looking at the blueprint of the museum, Neal’s mind wandered. He imagined himself at the MoMA, at night, neutralizing security cameras, cutting the alarm wires, putting his hands on the precious masterpiece – very carefully, of course. He could almost feel the tickle in his palms. He missed it, sometimes.  
  
He jumped back to the reality of the café. “Did they take it out of the frame?” he asked, back on track.  
  
“No, they took the whole thing.”  
  
Neal pondered this. “Then the main issue is transportation. You need to get the painting out, and with a painting that size, it has to be through the doors.”  
  
“As opposed to?”  
  
“Ceilings, air shaft, you know…”  
  
Peter rolled his eyes. “Right.”  
  
Neal looked up and shot Peter a cocky smile. “You didn’t ask me if I did it.”  
  
“I know you didn’t.”  
  
“Did you put a tracker on me or something?” Neal asked, looking through his pockets and patting his coat.  
  
Peter chuckled. “Wouldn’t Mozzie’s Russian surplus have caught it?”  
  
Neal laughed. “Probably. So… You just trust menow?”  
  
Peter shrugged. “I guess I do.”  
  
Neal cocked his head. He wasn’t buying it.  
  
“Theft happened on Sunday last week,” Peter admitted finally. “You were with us, enjoying El’s chicken hens. It did occur to me that you might have timed it precisely so that I would be your alibi, which would have been pretty smart…”  
  
Neal smiled. “So it did cross your mind to check on me. For a minute, Peter, I thought you had softened too much.”  
  
Peter smiled back. “A theft like that, I know you wouldn’t let anyone else pull it off.”  
  
Neal grinned. “You know me so well.”  
  
“So, back to transportation,” Peter said. “There was a private event at the museum the night before.”  
  
“Of course,” Neal nodded with approval. “They sneak in their van among the catering vehicles…”  
  
Peter shook his head. “No suspicious van around.”  
  
“Then the caterers are in on it.”  
  
Peter nodded. “To load the painting unnoticed.”  
  
“Or at least one of them.”  
  
“How about the thief himself?”  
  
“He’d have to blend in with the crew.”  
  
“But we checked them,” Peter insisted. “They’re all clean. No criminal record. No one with the profile of a master thief.”  
  
“Are you sure they were all who they claimed to be?”  
  
Peter frowned. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Maybe one of them – or several of them – gave their spot to our thieves.”  
  
“Oh that’s good. I’ll have the team recheck the camera feeds, see if they all look like who they’re supposed to be.”  
  
Peter clapped happily and got up. “Okay, I’ve got to go back to the office now. Thanks for the help, Neal.”  
  
Neal followed him outside. “Let me know how the case goes.”  
  
Peter nodded. “Will do.”  
  
“Just this one.”  
  
“Just this one.”  
  
  
To be continued....


	3. Chapter Three

Peter hurried down the block and rushed inside the diner. He shook the rain off his hair, shrugged off his coat and sat at their table. Neal was already there, smiling eagerly.  
  
“Hey, Peter.”  
  
“Hi, Neal,” Peter said back. “It’ll have to be quick today. I have a meeting at 1 p.m. sharp.”  
  
He quickly ordered a sandwich and a soup.  
  
“Team meeting?” Neal inquired.  
  
“Worse. Budget meeting…” Peter sighed.  
  
“Ah, I see…” Neal said sympathetically. “Did you bring me any juicy cases?”  
  
Peter grinned. His little scheme to bring Neal to work with him again had worked like a charm. Of course, it was nothing official. For the FBI, Peter just had a contact – or contacts – that he would turn to every once in a while. Only Clinton Jones knew it was Neal.  
  
And this unofficial partnership was working well. Neal had helped them with a good dozen cases over the past seven months, figuring out a heist, connecting dots, or hinting at how best to go undercover to catch the bad guys.  
  
“As a matter of fact, I do have a good case for you,” Peter said, pushing a case file toward Neal. “A missing sculpture from a private collection, one of those weird Mis things, no sign of forced entry, no forensic evidence.”  
  
“Any suspects?”  
  
“Plenty, but nothing solid. There was a little ceremony in that mansion the night of the theft. The cameras in the collection room were disabled, but not the other ones in and around the house. None of the attendees disappeared after the theft, nor left with a suspiciously big and bulgy purse…”  
  
Neal went through the file, paused and frowned at the picture of the weird sculpture. It seemed that for once they both agreed on the ugliness of the art – a multicolor six-finger hand made of papier mâché holding something that looked vaguely like a mushroom. It was even worse that the one Mozzie had once offered El.  
  
Peter forced down the last bite of his sandwich and stood up, holding his hand out for the file. Neal nodded but kept his nose in the file.  
  
“I really have to go,” Peter said impatiently. “We can discuss it more on Sunday.”  
  
Neal looked up. “Okay.”  
  
Peter stared at his friend. “I need that file back. You know you’re not even supposed to read it.”  
  
Neal shot him an innocent smile. “Oh sure, sorry,” he said, handing Peter his file.  
  
Peter was no fool. “Nice try.”  
  
Neal shrugged, his innocent smile still plastered all over his face. “Good luck with that meeting.”  
  
  


\----------------------------------------------------------

  
  
Peter was barely out of the meeting, walking to the elevator to get back to the 21st floor when his phone rang.  
  
“Hey Neal, what’s up? Do you miss me already?”  
  
“I have an idea!”  
  
“On how to keep track of the suspects while cutting down on surveillance hours?”  
  
 Peter walked into the elevator and push the button 21.  
  
“Look, we need to go to the crime scene. Can you meet me downstairs?”  
  
“What? Now?”  
  
“Yes,” Neal urged. “I think the art might still be there, waiting for the thief to come back and get it.”  
  
Peter sighed and pinched his nose. The elevator arrived on the 21st floor and the doors opened. Neal’s instincts had often proven right, now just as well as before. Still, taking him to the crime scene was risky, on many levels. Peter should probably call Jones, but his agent and his team were already following leads elsewhere in the city.  
  
He took a deep breath, and pushed the ground level button. He hoped he wasn’t going to regret this. No, he knew he would regret it. He had reports to review and a budget nightmare to solve. The last thing he needed right now was getting himself into Neal-induced troubles, but after two hours of the most frustrating meeting ever, Peter had the urge to stretch his legs and his mind.  
  
  


\----------------------------------------------------------

  
  
Peter parked the car in front of the mansion and turned to Neal. “No shenanigans in there. We just observe, and you don’t do anything without reporting to me. And don’t touch _anything_ ,” he added. “I don’t want to have to explain how your fingerprints appeared at our crime scene.”  
  
Neal shot him a bright smile and crossed his heart. “No shenanigans, I promise.”  
  
“I’m serious, Neal.” He handed Neal a pair of latex gloves. “Here, better be safe.”  
  
The young man turned serious. “So am I, Peter. Trust me, the last thing I want is to attract attention to me.”  
  
“Good,” Peter nodded as he got out of the car. “Let’s go then.”  
  
Peter showed his badge to the policeman on guard in front of the still secured mansion and the officer let them in.  
  
The forensic agents had finished their job earlier that day and the place was empty. They walked to the exhibit gallery. The exhibit was taking up three rooms on the East side of the house. There were paintings of very different epochs and styles displayed on the walls, and sculptures of various sizes across the rooms. In the middle of the first room, one stand was empty, where the stolen sculpture had been on display.  
  
Neal walked to it and went around, looking at it from all angles. Then he turned around, searching for the cameras, the exit routes. It was both fascinating and slightly scary to watch him case a room. Peter wasn’t sure it was a good thing – for either of them – to get so close to that old partnership dynamic, and yet, there was a part of him that thought it felt just perfectly right.  
  
“Your main issue here,” Neal finally said, musing, “is to get the piece out of here unnoticed. If it was me, I would hide the piece somewhere, wait for things to clear out, and then come collect it later, when no one is watching.”  
  
“What’s the point?” Peter asked.  
  
“So that you can’t pin it on me. The theft itself doesn’t take more than five minutes. Cut the camera, grab it, stash it. Nobody notices I was gone for such a short amount of time, and I make sure I was noticeable to everyone all through the night.”  
  
Peter wondered how many times Neal had pulled that one off. “So you think it’s still here?”  
  
“Let’s take a look,” Neal said cheerfully. “Forensics didn’t finish until this morning, it probably is.”  
  
“Precisely, wouldn’t Forensics have found it?”  
  
Neal turned to Peter and winked. “Not if it’s hidden properly.”  
  
He started sounding the walls, the stands, the floor, knocking with his knuckles in search for a hollow resonance that would indicate a hidden void. Soon, Peter joined him, and they both methodically scanned the whole gallery.  
  
Unable to resist the curiosity, Peter had to ask. “How many times did you pull that one off?”  
  
Neal grinned. “Allegedly?”  
  
“Goes without saying.”  
  
“Two or three times…”  
  
Peter paused and stood up. “Really? And it worked each time?”  
  
Neal shot him a bright smile and shrugged casually. “Well, there might have been a fourth time… But there were some complications…”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“You were closing in. I had to run.”  
  
Peter grinned and went back to his exploration, crouching to his knees to check on the old fireplace. He suddenly raised his head.  
  
“Wait, does that mean the art is still hidden in whatever little hole you stashed it in?”  
  
Neal shot Peter a grin and walked to the other room without answering.  
  
“You know,” he called Peter, “I have to admit –“  
  
He stopped mid-sentence. Peter stood up. The silence seemed suddenly heavy.  
  
“Neal?”  
  
A dreaded feeling that something very wrong was happening clenched his heart.  
  
“Neal?” he called again, walking toward the room where Neal had disappeared.  
  
But before he reached the corner, a gunshot tore through the air. Peter flinched with terror, as the echo of the gunshot took him back to that shady street in Wall Street where the unthinkable had happened.  
  
Shaking off the terrible memory, Peter quickly grabbed his gun from his holster and rushed to the next room. He caught the shadow of a man fleeing down the gallery. Peter chased after him, but the man jumped through an open window and disappeared into the garden. Peter turned around and almost crashed into the police officer who had come running, alerted by the gunshot.  
  
“He went that way,” Peter said quickly, pointing at the window while already rushing back to check on Neal. “And call 911, we have a man down!” he urged, seeing his friend lying on the floor.  
  
A dark red stain was spreading across his chest, in vivid contrast with the white linen of his shirt. Peter dropped to his knees by his side. Neal’s eyes were wide open, showing a mixed expression of surprise and shock.  
  
“Peter…” he tried to articulate, reaching for his friend’s hand.  
  
“Don’t try to talk,” Peter said between his teeth, as he pressed both hands against Neal’s chest.  
  
Neal let go a plaintive moan and cling to Peter’s elbow.  
  
“He was… the thief…”  
  
“Shhh, it’s all right, Neal. We’re gonna get you out of this.”  
  
Peter could feel the blood dripping through his fingers – thick, warm and sticky – mixing with the air leaking from Neal’s lungs. A pool of blood was spreading on the floor and Neal was growing scarily pale before his eyes.  
  
His pallor again took Peter back to that day where his friend had been shot and he hadn’t been able to save him, the day he had lost Neal. The memory pierced through his heart like a sharp dagger. A cold shiver ran through his body, from his toes to the top of his head.  
  
“Don’t die on me again, Neal…” he murmured in a broken voice. “Please…”  
  
  
  
To be continued...


	4. Chapter Four

He came out of nowhere, wearing all black, and Neal didn’t even register that the man was armed until the gunshot pierced through the silence and the bullet hit him, taking his breath away. He stumbled back and fell to the floor. The thief ran past him and Neal was vaguely aware of Peter chasing after him.  
  
The pain quickly escalated, radiating all over his chest. Inhaling air was excruciating.  
  
He blinked. Peter was by his side now. Everything around him seemed blurry and too bright. Neal tried to focus his sight on his friend, whose hands were pressed hard on his chest, keeping him together, trying to contain the life inside his body, and the air inside his lungs.  
  
Neal wanted to explain, but words were fighting him, so he did as Peter said and stopped talking, focusing on his breathing instead.  
  
He suddenly noticed a tremor in Peter’s arm and his hold on his chest lessen a little. Neal focused hard on Peter to try and see what was going on. Peter was white as a sheet, and he seemed petrified.  
  
“Don’t die on me again, Neal, please,” he said, his trembling voice barely audible.  
  
It took Neal’s foggy brain a moment to compute what Peter was talking about. A different kind of ache grew in his chest.  
  
“Peter, I…”  
  
“Stop it, Neal, don’t say anything.” Peter said out loud. “Don’t do it again, please…” he added in a pleading whisper.  
  
Neal was dozing off, having more and more difficulties to fight the dizziness and exhaustion. A sudden shift of weight on his chest startled him awake. With a better compression, his breathing eased a little and his sight cleared slightly. Another man was by his side. Neal recognized the policeman.  
  
“I’ve got this Agent Burke,” he said. “Help’s five minutes away.”  
  
Peter was now clenching to Neal’s shirt. He had a haunted look in his eyes and he seemed terrified. He kept saying reassuring words to Neal, but the young man could also hear the barely audible plea. _Don’t go, Neal, don’t go._  
  
Neal raised his hand, trying to catch Peter’s. His movements were sluggish and ill-coordinated but Peter grabbed his hand and hold onto it.  
  
“I’m… not going… anywhere,” Neal managed to articulate with much effort.  
  
Peter met his gaze and smiled weakly.  
  
After that, things became blurry and hectic. Neal was fighting very hard to stay awake, stay with Peter. But he was losing ground. Pain was worsening.  
  
“Don’t… let me die,” he panted, squeezing Peter’s hand.  
  
Peter continued to talk to him and Neal focused on his reassuring voice until it faded out into the darkness.  
  


 

\----------------------------------------------------------

  
  
He jolted awake. They were moving. He was on a gurney. There were lots of people around him now. Someone put a mask over his face. He felt Peter’s fingers wrapped around his. Neal looked around, searching for him. He caught sight of his friend. Peter still had that haunted look on his face and wouldn’t let go of him.  
  
“You need to step back, sir,” a medic said, pushing Peter away.  
  
Neal lost grip of Peter’s hand. He was hauled into the ambulance. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Peter, who looked terrified as he watched them take Neal away.  
  
Neal held his hand out and tried to call him through the mask. Someone was talking to him, holding him back, but all Neal wanted was for them to let Peter come with them and he wouldn’t rest until they did so.  
  
They finally let the agent in. Peter found a place close to Neal and grabbed his hand again, gently squeezing Neal’s fingers. Neal squeezed back. _Not going anywhere_ , he meant. He hoped Peter got the message.  
  
Then he passed out.

 

To be continued...


	5. Chapter Five

Peter was slumped in an uncomfortable chair in the waiting room of the surgery yfloor. It was his entire fault. He shouldn’t have taken Neal to the crime scene. He shouldn’t have asked him to work with him again.  
  
It wasn’t supposed to go like this…  
  
Peter bent over, put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. But he opened them back up immediately. He couldn’t stand the images that kept assaulting him each time he closed his eyes: Neal, lying on a gurney, so pale and frail, and full of blood, in a terrifying mix of the past and the present.  
  
_I’m not going anywhere._  
  
_You’re my best friend._  
  
Peter didn’t want to go through all this again. He wasn’t sure he’d survive Neal dying a second time.  
  
They had taken away an unconscious but breathing Neal – if barely – and Peter finally had had to let go of him.  
  
Now he was waiting. Waiting for hell to break loose and for his world to collapse again.  
  
_Don’t let me die._  
  
“Please, don’t die…” Peter whispered.  
  
Finally, Elizabeth arrived, with Mozzie tagging along, carrying Little Neal in a carrier on his chest. Peter staggered up and Elizabeth opened her arms to him. Peter buried his head in her shoulder, breathing in the comforting warmth and softness. After a while, she gently parted and made him sit back down in his chair. She sat next to him, holding his hand in hers.  
  
“How is he?” she asked.  
  
“He’s still in surgery. It’s… I don’t know.”  
  
Peter was too afraid to make any guess on the outcome. He knew it didn’t look good, but he refused to admit it.  
  
Mozzie was standing there, in front of them, Little Neal comfortably nestled in his baby carrier.  
  
“Why did you bring him here?” Peter asked, pointing in their direction.  
  
“Neal’s my friend too, Suit,” Mozzie said defensively.  
  
Peter shook his head. “I meant Pumpkin. It’s not a place for a baby.”  
  
“Ah-ah,” Mozzie said. “That’s exactly what I told Mrs. Suit here. All those germs…”  
  
Elizabeth freed Little Neal from the carrier and sat him on Peter’s lap. The kid smiled and pressed against his father’s chest and Peter wrapped his arms around his son.  
  
“Well, I could have looked for a last-minute Nanny, but I thought you’d like having him with you,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll take him home when it’s time to go to bed.”  
  
Peter bent over to kiss El on the cheek. She was right, of course. Neal had this magical soothing power over Peter. Ever since he was born, they had developed this invisible connection. When Peter couldn’t find sleep – back when grown-up Neal was still dead – he would just go to his son’s room, watching him sleep. Sometimes he would take him in his arms and they would sleep together on the rocking chair. And when it was Little Neal who couldn’t sleep, because of a tooth coming in, or when he was sick, Peter would rock him tenderly in his arms until he’d fall asleep.  
  
Another hour passed until the doctor finally came out, bringing some reassuring news regarding Neal’s condition. He’d had a collapsed lung, but they had managed to fix him up. Luckily, besides his lung and a broken rib where the bullet had ricocheted, no vital organ had been touched. Bar any post-operation complications, Neal should recover. He had just been moved to the recovery room and the doctor invited them to go see him.  
  
Elizabeth slipped away for a minute to go and change Little Neal, while the doctor led Peter and Mozzie to their friend’s room.  
  
They stood there, just looking at Neal as he was peacefully sleeping in his hospital bed. Everything was hitting a little too close to home for both of them. Though, at least this time, the outcome looked more hopeful, the white hospital sheet a vivid contrast to the dark mortuary bag that had once enveloped Neal’s body.  
  
“He’s gonna be fine,” Mozzie said, trying to convince himself as much as Peter.  
  
There was only one chair in the room. Peter gestured to Mozzie to take a seat and he himself slid to the floor, his back to the wall. He crossed his arms over his folded knees and sighed. It was slowly sinking in that Neal would be alright.  
  
“You okay, Suit?” Mozzie asked, taking the seat.  
  
“I’ll be fine,” he said, which he knew wasn’t exactly an answer. The truth was, he was too much of a mess right now to assess his own feelings.  
  
“I freaked out,” he said finally. “The blood on his shirt, his pale skin, his eyes…. It was all so similar. It brought back things, you know?”  
  
Mozzie nodded.  
  
“I’m scared to lose him again,” Peter went on, in a low voice. “People are supposed to die only once. It hurts for a time, and then you find a way to move on… You’re not supposed to live it again. There’s no second chance, but somehow, we got a second chance. And I don’t want to have to live it again. I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough.”  
  
“I know,” the little guy agreed, understanding.  
  
“I’m sorry, Moz,” Peter said. “This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t made him work with me again. He shouldn’t have been there. And yet, here we are again. Because of me. It’s happening all over again…” Peter bit his lips to restrain a sob. He cleared his throat. “I failed him… Again.”  
  
“Hey, Peter,” Mozzie said softly, patting his shoulder. “First, this was _not_ your fault. Second, the first time was a con, remember? It was all _Neal_ ’s fault.”  
  
Peter passed a tired hand over his face. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It felt so much like I was reliving that day. It got all confused in my head.”  
  
Mozzie turned to look down at Peter. “Except this time, you saved him.”  
  
“After he got shot,” Peter countered bitterly. He shook his head. “This was a mistake.”  
  
“As reluctant as I am to admit it, Suit, this was not.”  
  
Peter looked up at Mozzie, frowning.  
  
“He loves it. He always has. You and I both know that Neal doesn’t care much about the prize – It’s the challenge, the rush, that keeps him going. Working cases with you gives him that.”  
  
Peter felt a solace grow in his chest. He shot Mozzie an uncertain smile.  
  
“Put a bulletproof vest on him,” Mozzie went on. “Give him three bodyguards, take the bullet for him… But don’t take this away from him.”  
  
Now Peter was looking at Mozzie with astonishment.  
  
“He’s happy the way things are right now. I hadn’t seen him this carefree and happy with his life in a long, long time. He got his life back on track, gets to work with you ‘like old times’, except now he’s doing it as a free man, on his own terms.”  
  
“I guess I can find a spare vest in the FBI supplies.”  
  
“You shouldn’t trust those faulty government issues. I’ll get you some of my own.”  
  
“Russian surplus? You really think Russian material is more reliable than American technology?”  
  
Mozzie rolled his eyes. “You can be so naïve for a smart man, sometimes…”  
  
Peter wasn’t sure if he should feel pleased or offended.  
  
“Thank you, Moz,” he said after a while.  
  
“Anytime, Suit.”  
  
  
To be continued...


	6. Chapter Six

Neal slowly came to. He was confused at first, feeling he wasn’t in his own bed. He opened his eyes. The room seemed way too bright, and very unwelcoming.  Too much white, too much bare walls. He looked around and recognized the familiar figure of Elizabeth, seating besides his bed, reading a book.  
  
It came back to him in flashes, randomly. The shooting, the bullet hitting his ribcage, the missing sculpture. Peter’s terror, too.  
  
Neal felt an urgent need to see his friend.  
  
“El…” he croaked.  
  
She looked up and smiled at him. “Neal, sweetie, you’re awake.”  
  
She approached and held a glass of water out for him. Neal sipped through the straw, the water soothing his sore throat.  
  
“Peter?” he asked.  
  
“I sent him home a couple hours ago, in the hope he’d get some sleep. Mozzie, too. They kept vigil at your side all night. They’re going to be upset you waited for them to leave to wake up.”  
  
Neal smiled weakly.  
  
“I should probably get the nurse,” Elizabeth said. “And probably call the boys, too.”  
  
She quickly walked out of the room, leaving Neal alone. A thought crossed his mind. They had to register his name. He was back in the system, now. Officially back from the dead.  
  
He looked down at the name tag around his wrist. His vision was a bit blurry and he had to bring it close to his eyes to decipher it. _Ivan Bliminse_.  
  
Neal chuckled. Which, in retrospect, was a very bad idea. His lungs hurt like hell, and his laugh ended in a painful cough.  
  


\----------------------------------------------------

  
  
He must have dozed off, because when he opened his eyes again, Peter and Mozzie were both standing side by side at the end of his bed, anxiously looking at him.  
  
“Hey, buddy,” Peter said.  
  
“Hey,” Neal whispered.  
  
“Good to see you’re awake. How do you feel?”  
  
Neal restrained from shrugging. He had learned it the hard way, the less moving, the better. “Good, I think.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad you’re back on this end of the Styx, Neal,” Mozzie said. “I’ll see you around.”  
  
“It’s Ivan,” Neal whispered, a smile brushing his lips, raising his hand to show his wrist.  
  
Mozzie winked. “Poor guy seems to be a bullet magnet.”  
  
Neal smiled. “Thank you,” he said.  
  
“Always there for you. Anyway… I’d rather go, now. Get well, _Ivan_.”  
  
Mozzie’s phobia of hospital sure hadn’t lessened. Now that he was reassured about Neal’s state, he couldn’t wait to get out of here.  
  
Peter took the chair next to the bed. “He stayed there all night. A minute more was probably more than he could handle.”  
  
It meant a lot to Neal that Mozzie had been willing to fight his hospital phobia to stay by his side until he was sure Neal was better. And of course, Peter had stayed too. Despite the lack of sleep, the agent looked better now. His usual confidence was back and his eyes were shining of their usual tenderness.  
  
“Thank you, Peter, for saving my life,” Neal said.  
  
Keeping his voice low, it didn’t hurt too much to talk. There was so much he wanted to tell his friend, though he wasn’t sure how to say it.  
  
“Thank you for not dying, this time,” Peter said. The last bit had blurted out and Peter seemed to regret it. He bit his lip. “Sorry… I didn’t mean… I’m just glad you’re alive. The doctor said you should be fine.”  
  
“I’m sorry for putting you through this again, Peter.”  
  
“It wasn’t your fault. Not this time anyway. If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”  
  
“Please, Peter, don’t go there. It wasn’t your fault. I chose to go. On my own free will. And should I add, I do have some experience going in the field. I knew what I was doing.”  
  
“As a federal agent, I am still responsible for your safety. And as your friend, I _feel_ responsible.”  
  
“Just don’t take it away from me.” Neal murmured. They were just finding a new way to their old partnership. The last thing Neal wanted was for Peter to back off now. “I’m glad you asked me to work with you again. I like our little arrangement.”  
  
Peter smiled softly. “Mozzie suggested making you wear a bullet proof vest.”  
  
“Only if it’s Dr. Drugov’s super-light vest that fits under my shirt.”  
  
Peter chuckled. “Deal.”  
  
Silence settled over the room. Neal fidgeted with some loose threads dangling off his bed sheet. There was no really good way to bring it up, but he felt like they needed to acknowledge it, and talk it out.  
  
“Look,” he said after a while. “I heard what you said, when I was down…”  
  
Peter stared at him with a blank expression. His gaze slowly drifted away.  
  
“I’d rather not talk about it,” he muttered. “Not exactly my best moment.”  
  
“Actually, I find it…” Neal looked for the right word. “Touching.”  
  
Peter frowned. “That I freaked out?”  
  
Neal shook his head. “That you care so much about me. And a little overwhelming too, sometimes. Despite all my missteps, you keep fighting for me, taking me back, giving me yet another chance. There aren’t that many people in my life who’ve done that for me. You and Mozzie. That’s it.”  
  
Peter was looking at an invisible point somewhere beyond Neal. “I’ve lost you once, Neal. It’s good to have you back, but I’m so scared to lose you again. And I know exactly how painful it’d be. And you being shot reminded me of that. It all got mixed up, and it hurt.” He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Does that make sense to you?”  
  
“It does,” Neal said. He wished he could get up and give Peter a big comforting hug. But that would have to wait for his ribcage to recover a little…  
  
 “I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I promise, I –“  
  
“No, no, Neal. Stop blaming yourself for this. You’ve done enough of that. We’re past it. At least I hope.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean I don’t feel responsible…” Neal said softly, repeating Peter’s own words.  
  
Peter looked up at him and a short smile appeared on his lips.  
  
“You think you could avoid getting shot at, at least for a while?” he asked, a hint of amusement sparkling in his eyes.  
  
Neal grinned. “You have my word, Peter.”  
  
“Good.” The agent stood up. “I gotta go back to work. I made sure we stay in charge of the investigation, shooting and all. Jones will come over later to take your statement. We can’t avoid it, but we’ll keep your name off the report.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Best way to keep you alive is to keep you dead, right?”  
  
Neal winced. “Ugh, that sounds kinda wrong.”  
  
Peter made a face. “It does.”  
  
“Though not untrue.”  
  
Peter walked to the door.  
  
“Hey, partner,” Neal called him back. “Keep me posted on the case.”  
  
Peter turned around and smiled. “Will do.”

\----------------------------------------------------

  
**Three weeks later.**

Neal recognized Peter’s knock on the door. He cautiously got up from his sofa and went to open the door. The agent had a package in his hands, which immediately piqued Neal’s curiosity. He stepped aside to let him in.  
  
“Hi, Neal,” Peter greeted him, giving him a look over. “How are you doing?”  
  
“Better,” Neal said. “How about you?”  
  
“Pretty good,” Peter said. “We finally got the guy who shot you. It appears he had quite a long rap sheet.”  
  
Neal smiled. Nothing like catching a bad guy to cheer Peter up. He offered Peter a beer and served himself a glass of soda.  
  
“So, what’s in the package?” Neal asked.  
  
Peter handed it to him. “It’s your ‘get well’ gift.”  
  
Neal opened it, ripping the paper apart, revealing one of Dr. Drugov’s bulletproof vests. He chuckled. “Oh, Peter, you shouldn’t have.”  
  
“Just in case you’d need to go back into the field…” Peter said.  
  
“I’ll make sure to wear it. Thank you, Peter. It means a lot.” Even more than he could express.  
  
Peter sat down on the sofa, inviting Neal to sit next to him.  
  
“So, tell me, how would you rob the One State bank on Lexington?”  
  
  
  
The End.


End file.
